


Really Something

by wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up)



Category: Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M, Pre-S1, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 18:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2702621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/pseuds/wearitcounts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh, yes, Martin thinks. That’s really something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Really Something

**Author's Note:**

  * For [causidicus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/causidicus/gifts).



> **SO HERE IS THE BIG DISCLAIMER** :
> 
> THIS IS TOTALLY FICTITIOUS. I don't know any of these people, obviously, or anything about their lives other than what they intend for public consumption, nor do I presume to. Basically the only true things going on here are their names and the fact that they made this cool tv show called _Sherlock_ , idk, maybe you've heard of it. Anyway, I've been keeping it intentionally mostly quiet but [I'm commissionable](http://wearitcounts.tumblr.com/post/74692543283/peeks-from-behind-the-bushes-hi-um-i-heard-you), and my dear friend and beta [Anna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/causidicus/pseuds/causidicus) wanted Freebatch, so I sure gave it to her.
> 
> So yeah. This happened. Blame Anna.

He’s got no clue, Martin thinks.

No bloody idea, the things Martin wants to do to him. Christ, look at him, sat there waving about those delicious fingers, sinful mouth moving faster than his tongue can keep up with it, fresh-faced and just this side of too skinny and all Martin can think about is bending him over and breaking him in two.

“Oh dear,” he’s saying, checking his wristwatch and throwing Martin an earnest, brow-creased look, “we’ve run far later than I’d expected. I know you’ve got—” he gestures with those hands again, those hands that Martin wants on him, _in him_ , and finishes, lamely, “—things.”

Martin knows what _things_ he means. Children are _things_ ; the woman he lives with who bore them and, with him, raises them. His dogs, his home, his ostensibly nice normal utterly British life: it _is_ late for a man who has _things_.

They’d filmed in City earlier in the day, and had decided to stay a little after to go over the next day’s scenes. They would be difficult. They’d have to bicker as though they’d lived together for months, when they’d only been shooting for five weeks. On the way out Mark and Steven had given them the kind of look you get when you know you’ve been a very good boy, and it had made him feel the flush of pride he’s been allowing to bubble up ever since he signed on for this. This series: the writing somehow both intricate and clean, the vision at once familiar and utterly novel; he can’t explain it, but he feels it. This is going to be a very good series.

He’d be lying, he realises with a bit of a smirk, if he said he thought that wasn’t also an awful lot down to how much chemistry he’s got with his co-star.

It’s not like he can’t be attracted to someone he works with and still be professional. This is his job and he’s been doing it rather well for two decades, it’s just this isn’t that. They can do this here. This works.

Martin checks his own timepiece with feigned nonchalance. “Oh, you know,” he says, “at least there won’t be traffic; I’ll be sure to get in a nice round five hours’ worth of sleep before our 8 AM call.” He carefully pulls the sort of face that conveys a multitude of things, among them: _can you believe this_ , and _totally worth it_ , and _wouldn_ _’t trade it_.

Ben looks horrified. “Gosh, that’s terrible! You know what, you could, I mean, if you _wanted_ _—_ not that you would, or anything, probably, I just thought—well, it’s really a stupid idea but I’d hate myself if I didn’t—what I mean to say is—”

Martin laughs. “Yes,” he cuts in amiably, “what _do_ you mean to say,” and he’s played this game before, he knows before he’s asked, he’s got his line ready, he’s just waiting for his cue.

“Well,” Ben begins, and he’s sort of stumbling over the words as they escape his mouth seemingly without permission, “this time of night, mine is only about twenty minutes away. You could kip in the guest room. Just for tonight, you know. If it’d help. I mean, it’s perfectly all right if you don’t in fact I don’t even know why I thought of it only you’d get more sleep so I just thought—”

“Ben,” Martin says firmly, and puts his hand on one lean, freckled forearm, and then Ben’s looking down at Martin’s hand on him and back up at his face and so he smiles as big as he can, “that would be lovely.”

  

*

 

Ben drives. Martin watches his hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles pronounced and strong and fingers curling all the way round, allows himself to admire the poetry that lives in the way Ben moves them as he speaks, as he shifts gears, as he turns the car onto the quiet, private little drive leading up to his home.

Oh, yes, Martin thinks. That’s really something.

 

*

 

“It’s just laughable, but honestly, I haven’t anything to offer you,” Ben’s voice carries from the kitchen, sonorous and warm and not quite the liquid velvet register of his Sherlock but damn close enough, and Martin shuts his eyes and bathes in it. “I mean, I know we’ve eaten, but I should at least be able to scrape together a decent plate of cheese and crackers, or something. The way I live is frankly embarrassing.”

“Don’t even think on it,” Martin says. Ben would be like this, wouldn’t he; beautiful and generous and self-deprecating, and it’s all Martin can do not to picture all the ways he’d have him right there on Ben’s gorgeous brown leather sofa, over the arms of the matching bronze-studded club chair.

Ben appears at the entryway between the two rooms and runs a rueful hand through his shaggy hair. The length has been driving him crazy, quite visibly, but Martin thinks it suits him. “You’re probably tired, anyway. We could call it a night.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Martin replies. He wants to stretch out the evening, expand it, somehow insert more hours into the time between his arrival at Ben’s condo and the moment they part for proper, separate bedrooms. “I’m still a bit keyed up to sleep. You know how it is; that scene just kind of got me all wound up.”

Ben nods effusively. “Oh, yes, I know exactly what you mean. It’s like there’s all this leftover… _something_ , and it hasn’t got anywhere to go. I—” he breaks off, scratches the back of his neck. “I feel it, too. We could…” he trails off, shoots an uncertain look at the space next to Martin’s head.

“Well, out with it, then. What could we?”

“I’ve got some wine in, a really nice shiraz, gift from a friend. We could have a nightcap or something?” Ben fidgets a little, rubs the palm of his hand up and down his forearm, and Martin is unspeakably charmed.

“That sounds just about perfect.”

There’s a sort of open floor plan so Martin’s able to watch as Ben opens the wine, pulls two slim-stemmed glasses from a cabinet above the sink, glides about the kitchen with preternatural grace that’s reminiscent of his Sherlock, the way Ben moves when he’s in character and yet totally comfortable. It’s a bit of a wonder, he thinks; no, it’s absolutely marvellous: the way this beautiful boy is just a pile of limbs and a mop of hair and a voice like a jungle cat and it’s mesmerising, it’s absolutely bloody distracting, just watching him.

They sit and they drink and they talk. They listen to music, they laugh. Ben asks after the kids, and Martin pulls up a photo on his phone and passes it, lets the tips of his fingers run all down and over the back of Ben’s and he can actually see a shiver run through him. Martin reckons there must be something to that mind palace stuff because he finds he wants to keep that, to put it someplace safe, on a shelf or in a drawer, somewhere it will stay glossy and firm and crisp around the edges so he can hold it in his hands, examine it later and find out what it means. He’s sure he’s never wanted anyone like this and yet he knows somehow he’s got to wait, got to let it warm and cook and set and cool just enough that he can sample without getting burned.

 

*

 

It’s when Martin’s finished in the guest loo that he notices his opportunity. Ben’s left the door to his bedroom and to the ensuite open, and he’s clearly just finished cleaning his teeth. Quick and quiet, Martin sneaks in and does it, one of his kung fu-esque moves, gets right up underneath Ben’s arm where it’s raised as he’s closing the medicine cabinet, gives a low, growly sort of _kayyy-ah!_ up against Ben’s sternum as he violently swings his hand just at Ben’s neck in a perfectly-aborted blow.

 _That_ _’s_ when he notices that he’s stripped down to his vest, and Ben’s not wearing one at all. Ben’s breathing has gone a bit heavy as well, and there’s an odd flush to his cheeks and chest that Martin positively _drinks_ in.

Ben is the first to break as he backs away, chuckles, “ _Jesus_ , you’re a wanker,” using a flannel to slap at Martin’s arm, “it’s a good job I didn’t take you for a burglar and put you on your arse.”

Martin laughs deliciously at this. “As if you could.”

Ben’s laughing, his eyes are doing that funny thing where they’re not quite green or blue or gold, and something warm and a little possessive gathers in Martin’s chest and runs out and all through his veins. “Listen,” he says, “I want to thank you. It means a lot, really.”

“I mean, you’re very welcome, but it’s not a problem.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just,” Martin gestures, “this. Here. This is your home, your private space. I know how that can be, in our line of work. You have to keep it sort of sacred and the fact is you invited me into it, and you’ve made me feel very welcome.” He chances it, puts a hand on Ben’s forearm, an echo of earlier in the evening and he can’t tell if it registers but somehow despite the height difference Ben’s looking at him from underneath those ridiculous eyelashes and saying,

“Well of course you are, Martin. Of course you are.”

 

*

 

It keeps happening, things like that. Little things, nothing anyone could put a finger on if they didn’t know to look for it. Martin knows he’s flirting, fuck sake, Martin’s _trying_ to flirt, and damn him if it isn’t working.

It’s the sneaky heated glances Ben keeps delivering from under the hood of his broad, beautiful brow; it’s the way their fingers keep bumping into each other for no reason at all; it’s the disappearing space between their bodies when they’re doing nothing more than standing around on set. It’s the way Ben looks at Martin’s mouth, bites at his own, whenever Martin’s caught his eye.

It’s the late nights and the early mornings and the shared cups of tea and coffee and bourbon, it’s the borrowed sunglasses and the fingers lingering on the nape of his neck.

It’s how at any given moment, they’re either looking at, or away from each other.

 

*

 

In fact he thinks it might have just gone on that way forever, they might have just let the series wrap and each gone on to the next and hoped for another shot at it if they got another go round, if it weren’t for this night, the night they’re in his endearingly quaint little portion of the three-way trailer they share, running lines. Martin stands and watches with his back against the desk and Ben paces manically in front, pulling on his hair and waving his slim, creamy freckled forearms as he delivers a rapid-fire Sherlockian deduction, and all at once Martin’s nothing so sure as he can’t take it anymore.

He doesn’t say his next line, and Ben draws up close, so close, _too_ close.

“What,” Ben says, low, rough, cut with gravel.

“That mouth,” Martin doesn’t want to say, except he does, and when Ben hears it he licks his lips.

“Have you ever had anything like this,” Ben says finally, carefully.

“Once. And then... not,” he adds. There’s more to that, but it’s not time to explain it, not yet.

Ben jerks his head in a tiny nod.

“You have someone,” Martin says.

Then there’s the look Ben gives him: disappointment, exasperation, _hunger_ ; and Martin’s done for, grabbing at Ben’s hips and kissing him hard and desperate as he’s ever kissed anyone, all teeth and tongue and filthy wet heat and Ben’s whimpering and if _that_ _’s_ not the hottest thing Martin’s ever heard.

He wants to push Ben around, bend him over the desk, _grind_ into him and press his cheek hard against the surface, only before he can get enough of a grip on his waist Ben surprises him. He feels Ben bite his ear, once, lightly, and then suppresses what otherwise would be a very loud groan as Ben smirks and slides down Martin’s body, chest pressed firm to his front the whole way, sinks to his knees in graceful supplication, looks up at him and rubs his cheek against the front of Martin’s jeans.

Ben licks at the thick denim-covered line of him. “Do you know how long—”

“No—” Martin stops him, puts his thumb on Ben’s lower lip, pushes a bit, and Ben’s candy pink tongue sneaks out to lick at it. Martin takes hold of his jaw, fingers firm and a little rough, unzips his flies with his right hand and pulls himself out, “this—” and uses his thumb to pry Ben’s mouth open just enough to push the fat flushed head of his cock inside.

It’s slick and hot and _gorgeous_ , and Ben’s mouth goes soft as his throat goes tight and Martin could just come from this, he could—

He pulls Ben off and hauls him up and kisses him filthily, messily, licks the taste of himself out of Ben’s mouth as he pulls Ben’s tee shirt up to yank over his head. Ben’s taken care of his own jeans, and pants, and Martin pulls back to marvel at the long pale freckle-dotted figure Ben cuts in front of him, his clothes in a careless puddle round his feet. He’s so slim, a bit too slim, but there’s wiry strength, there’s a dusting of ginger chest hair, there are muscles in his biceps and thighs and his small oval nipples are the same rosy shade as the shiny wet tip of his cock, which looks to Martin to be hard enough to hurt.

“Bend over the sofa,” Martin growls.

Heat flares in Ben’s eyes even as he says, “We haven’t got—”

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Martin interjects. “Not yet.”

Ben moves to obey and Martin removes his own clothes, takes his time, admires the view of Ben’s obscenely plush arse and milk-pale thighs spread out on the sofa, knees bent on the seat and arms draped over the back. Ben turns and gives him the sort of look that could scorch pavement.

“Turn around,” Martin demands. Ben does, drops his head between his shoulders.

Martin moves toward him, between his spread calves. He lays a hand on roundest part of Ben’s arse, the left side, and pulls him open a bit. Ben whines and pushes back against his hand, so Martin lifts it away and returns it in a soft little slap. “Ah-ah-ah,” he clucks. “Wait for it.”

Ben tosses his head a little in apparent frustration before he freezes, altogether becomes the perfect tableau of patience.

Martin kneels between his legs and guides his thighs. “Spread a bit more for me, love, lower yourself to me. That’s it, pet.”

The first stroke of his tongue over the soft patch of skin behind Ben’s bollocks is echoed in a gasp that sounds as if it simply escaped from Ben’s throat, as though Ben is too full of want, of desire, to keep even his own breath in his body. Martin does it again, drags his tongue up and over Ben’s sweet pink little arsehole, presses it in a bit and moves his lips down to suckle. Ben’s moaning openly now, clenching his muscles and fluttering beneath Martin’s mouth.

“Yes—” Ben gasps, “ _please_ _—_ ”

“Mm,” Martin rumbles into Ben’s skin, “beg for it,” and he wants to drag it out, wants to make Ben suffer just a little, just as much as he’s suffered every time Ben touches his own mouth with those beautiful fingers, but Ben’s skin is hot and slick and musky-sweet and Martin decides to go ahead and help himself as he lazily strokes his own cock.

He’s practically made a meal of it by the time he notices Ben’s long and desperate moans have taken on an urgency that can’t be ignored any longer, and so he rises, slots his slick, leaking cock between Ben’s arse cheeks and reaches around to stroke Ben’s hot wet prick as he ruts harshly against him. They’re both panting, Martin’s grunting with exertion, with thrill, and suddenly it’s there, just _there_ , and Ben’s coming all over his hand just as Martin spurts thickly against the small of Ben’s back.

Martin collapses against him, and then they both fall sideways, spooned together on the soiled cushion of the sofa. They shift, in tandem, away from the damp spot. Martin laughs weakly.

“I suppose I’ll need to have that cleaned.”

 

*

 

The weeks and months that follow are a certain kind of lovely that glows warm and comfortable in Martin’s gut and he finds he doesn’t mind the late nights and the early mornings and having half his things living forty minutes off in Hampstead Heath because Ben lives there too, and Ben is also his, inasmuch as he is Ben’s and he thinks he’s just about as content as he ever could be.

He relaxes, maybe a little more than he should. He lets himself enjoy it.

 

*

 

It’s not long after the series airs that Ben—well, Martin supposes the only word for it is _panics_.

“People keep showing me things,” Ben tells him one night after the kids have gone to sleep and Amanda’s out on a date. There’s a heavy sort of pause.

“Mm?” Martin responds. It’s not that he’s not listening, he’s just had the most exhausting day, and he’d hoped they could have a mindless sort of pre-bed chat that ends in either soppy endearments or talking each other off, and this doesn’t sound much like it’s headed that way.

“Pictures. Paintings, drawings. Of us. From the show.”

“Mm yeah, yeah people do that sort of thing,” Martin says. “Always have. Especially for a thing like this, like Sherlock Holmes. They write stories too, I mean, it’s really creative stuff.”

Ben pauses again. “In a lot of them, we’re fucking.”

Martin laughs right out loud at that; he can’t help it.

“I don’t think it’s very funny, to be honest, Martin.”

“Oh, come on, love, don’t be like that. It’s Holmes and Watson; that’s what people have been thinking for well over a century.”

“I don’t know,” Ben says. “I suppose.”

Martin sighs. “If this is about some kind of ego thing, you didn’t fail to do something, or get anything wrong. You made the right choices. It’s there because those are the characters, that’s what they feel. It’s a love story. Always has been. Didn’t you know?”

“It isn’t that.”

Martin’s not sure he wants to know what it is at that point, so they’re both quiet for a little too long and when he finally speaks, it is with very soft and carefully weighted words.

“I don’t really know what it is you’re angry about. If you could explain it to me, I’d love to understand it. But I don’t mind if that’s what people want to think, or what they enjoy. It doesn’t change the work we’ve done, or will do. I’m not ashamed of it. I wish you wouldn’t be, either. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“I’m not ashamed.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No!” Ben’s finally shouting now, and his voice has an angry, desperate quality Martin doesn’t half dislike. “It’s just that’s private, it’s private and nobody _knows_ about it, only everybody’s _talking_ about it, and we can’t ever have it because everybody’s just piled onto this great bloody ship that’s so far from harbour there isn’t any point in trying to turn it around, only it’s not theirs this time, it’s _ours_ , it’s _mine_ and it’s _yours_ and when it’s pictures of _us_ , it’s not fair!”

Martin lets out a long, low breath. “Ben,” he says evenly, “that’s not us. That’s John and Sherlock. They’re characters. Us, what we’ve got, it’s got nothing to do with that. If you can’t understand that, I’m not sure what else to tell you.”

He can just about hear Ben struggling inside his own mind even over the phone and waits it out.

“Fine,” Ben says, tersely. “That’s fine.”

“I really don’t know what you want me to say, honestly I don’t, but I don’t think, whatever it is, I’m likely to say it,” he says sadly, a bit helplessly, as honest as he’s ever been.

“No, I don’t suppose you are.” Ben’s reply is abrupt and a little more final than Martin would like, but he can’t see his way beyond any of this; he’s tired, and disappointed, and when it comes down to it pretty damned confused. “I—we’ll talk later.”

It’s weak, there’s no promise in it. “Sure, yeah. Goodnight, Ben.”

There isn’t a reply beyond the moment the call drops.

 

*

 

Martin keeps thinking he should call but also it seems an awful lot like Ben should call and it’s not as if he hasn’t anything to do. Work keeps coming in, the kids have things; the worst part is when they ask after Ben, but it’s easy enough to point to his picture published everywhere from LA to Timbuktu and call that _busy_. Amanda knows, that much is clear. She sends him these _looks_ every once in a while, like she knows he’s hurting and she doesn’t much care for it, but she’s got someone of her own at the moment and it’s going well, and anyway he doesn’t think he’d like to talk to her about it.

Not about this one, no.

 

*

 

They don’t speak for the three weeks it takes to meet for coffee. Martin could tell himself it’s that they’re busy; _Sherlock_ has afforded them both the kind of fame and opportunity that would make this a plausible excuse. It’s just he’s done this before, this thing where you date someone as busy as you are, and he’s always managed quite well.

They go someplace quiet, discreet. Nobody much looks at them or bothers them as they huddle across from one another in a high-backed booth, hands curled around warm mugs and a small white plate presenting a couple of picked-at pastries between them.

“I’m sorry I haven’t called,” Ben starts, “it’s been a bit crazy recently.”

“Yeah, good, same.” And it has. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth.

There’s an awkward pause and Martin registers: _that_ _’s new_.

“Listen,” he says, “I don’t want to be the kind of people who let it fester or trail off into nothing that turns into something ugly. I don’t want to meet up with you for coffee, exchange pleasantries, and then not see or talk to you unless we happen to be at an event or on a job. I don’t want to make a mess out of everything we’ve got and everything we’re going to need to have when we work together, because you know that’s going to be happening quite a lot.”

Ben is silent, but not disagreeably so.

“I say let’s have it out, then,” Martin continues, “you were upset about something I didn’t understand, or what I did understand, I didn’t like; that also upset you. We’re coming at it from different angles that don’t seem capable of meeting in the middle. What shall we do?”

“I don’t know,” Ben says softly.

“Nope, nor do I.”

“I suppose,” Ben begins, pauses, fiddles with his napkin. “I suppose I was afraid. I _am_ afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

Ben eyes him. “Of everything. Of what we have professionally being mocked, being picked apart and thought down to us having feelings for each other; of the fact that we do; of what would happen if that were to become known. Our jobs and our lives are on the line with this. Don’t pretend like it’s the same as if one of us were a woman. We’d like it to be, but it’s not.” He heaves a breath. “Mostly I’m afraid of you. I—I’m afraid of falling in love with you.”

Martin exhales, long and slow and thoughtful. “That,” he says, “is a lot. And you know, I think I understand now. Not saying I think it’s all completely rational, but I think I get it. And fear isn’t rational, is it. No.”

Ben frowns.

“I’m just saying, this is a thing we’re going to face. It’s not going to stop anytime soon, we both know that. We just have to figure out ways to deal with it. And I think maybe that has to be a thing we do separately.”

Ben’s expression takes on a bit of a panicked edge.

“No, no,” Martin amends, and he’s on it so fast he forgets to breathe between the words, “I’m not saying that. I don’t want that. I just mean… maybe we don’t talk about it with each other. I’ve never been one to believe that every subject is best brought to your partner; sometimes you need other people to help you work through things. Maybe this is the sort of thing we talk about with someone else.”

Ben appears to turn that over in his mind, feel all around its edges as he feels all around the rim of his coffee mug with his fingers, his impossibly long, impossibly gorgeous fingers and Martin can’t quite help the hot sharp stab of lust that punches into him at the sight.

“All right,” he says, “all right. That would be… good. That’s good.”

“Yeah?”

And there it is, the electric, lopsided, rabbit-toothed grin Martin loves, practically bathing him in relief, in warmth, in—Martin’s almost shocked to find—what just may be love. He tucks that realisation away for another day and reaches out a hand to catch Ben’s, give it a squeeze, reluctantly pull away because, after all, they’re in public. He grins back.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says.

“Would it be okay if—well, what I mean is, is it too soon to—”

“Ben, if you’re seriously thinking of _not_ inviting me back for a shag, you’d better just consider this whole thing over right now.”

A wild, beautiful flush joins the smile on Ben’s face, and Martin thinks he’s never been so fond of anything, of anyone, half as much.

 

*

 

“Ah! Like _that_ ,” Ben growls in his ear, and Martin’s pleased as anything to comply, pushes into Ben again and again, revels in the sweet feeling of Ben’s legs wrapped tight round him as he thrusts. He leans down to close his teeth around the sweat-slick tendon of Ben’s neck, suckles on the skin softly, lifts his head and puts his mouth against Ben’s jaw.

“Bossy,” he breathes.

Ben doesn’t reply because he’s started moaning, deep, drawn-out, wrecked, and Martin knows he’s close. He reaches down between them and rubs a thumb over the smooth wet head of Ben’s cock, drags it down over his frenulum before gripping the shaft and pumping.

The moan turns into a high whine and then Ben’s coming hot and slick over Martin’s fingers.

Martin slows his hips as Ben shudders and sighs and regains himself, and when he opens his eyes, Martin lifts his hand to Ben’s mouth and Ben licks himself off of Martin’s skin, and it’s all Martin can do to keep from pounding into him hard enough to hurt.

After, when they’re sated and blissed out and on just this side of sleep, Martin remembers an email that needs a response, and so he kisses the nape of Ben’s neck and murmurs something affectionate into the soft warm skin and squeezes Ben’s body in parting apology before rolling over to go in search of Ben’s laptop.

He finds it in the next room, Ben’s office, and after a brief bit of poking at the keys, pulls up what he’s looking for. There are five new messages besides, two about _Sherlock_ read-throughs, some spam, and one from his brother with a keyboard-smash of a subject line that consists mostly of exclamation points. He clicks on it.  

 

> _Don’t ask how I found this, just be grateful I did. Your fans. I think they’re onto something. And here I was, wondering what to get you for Christmas._
> 
> _Jamie_

 

There’s a file attached so Martin clicks on it. After a bit of slack-jawed shock, he laughs. He laughs about as loud and long as he ever has, smacks his hand hard on the desk and positively _roars_.

It’s an image, a drawing of John Watson, _his_ John Watson, with extremely generous and well-cut proportions, lying on a bed in a come-hither sort of pose, dressed in only bright red Y-fronts with white piping. Just inside the edge of the bedroom door frame peeks the head of Ben’s Sherlock, sporting twin spots of high pink flush on each of his cheeks and a look of purely lustful consternation.

He doesn’t know why this of all things makes him breathless and giddy and far too keyed up to answer an email about production schedules, but it does; so, he closes the window and shuts the computer, goes back to the bed and crawls between the sheets, slots himself all along Ben’s back and kisses his shoulder.

“What on earth was so funny?” Ben mumbles, but reaches back to squeeze Martin’s hip.

“Nothing, love,” Martin replies fondly, treats himself to another sweet, nibbling kiss, “nothing at all.”


End file.
